Death Wish
by TheSilverHunt3r
Summary: Summary: Dazai was on the floor. Blood pooled around his arm. A pocket knife was on the floor. Dad!Mori, oneshot. Warning-mentions of depression and suicide attempts.


Summary: Dazai was on the floor. Blood pooled around his arm. A pocket knife was on the floor. Dad!Mori, oneshot. Warning-mentions of depression and suicide attempts.

Dazai stared at the ceiling. He let his lips fall down into a frown. He was on the couch, none of his coworkers could see him. His chocolate brown hair was unruly, even more than usual, the locks falling wherever they wished.

He closed his eyes, focusing on constants. He felt the beat of his heart, the pulse as his blood coursed through his veins, steady and strong. His lungs filled with air, then let the air go.

But he didn't feel anything, the way people were supposed to. Wasn't there supposed to be something else he could feel in his chest? Something non-physical?

Feelings, he knew, were illogical.

Feelings, he had been told, were something that happened. They could not be coaxed or ordered into existence. They were hard to control, hard to tether or collar or leash.

Feelings, he had been told, was something that people were full of, that people were always, well feeling.

He wondered if he was simply empty. He could not feel anything. Only, merely, the physical: the beating of his heart, air moving to and from his windpipe and his lungs, and the blood pulsing through his veins. Perhaps he was broken? Or, perhaps, as his ability suggested, he was not human? That would make sense.

Dazai's phone buzzed. He slowly took it out, cracking open an eye to check what the notification had been about. Nothing worth responding to. His face stared back at him, faintly mirrored on the screen. He put his phone away and turned over, lying face down on the couch.

He felt drowsy and let himself drift off to sleep.

Kunikida's yells woke him. "Dazai! Dazai! Get up! You need to finish your report on the job!"

Dazai slowly got up, yawning. He walked past his partner and sat at his desk. "Yes, yes," he muttered.

Ranpo looked up. He paused halfway to take a bite of chocolate. Dazai hadn't taken the opportunity to mess with Kunikida. 'That was. . . .' Ranpo struggled with how to describe the feeling. 'Unusual,' he carefully settled on.

XXX

Chuuya, the Port Mafia Executive, had been feeling off the whole day. And whenever he had off days, his thoughts went to bad places, to things he didn't want to think about.

The knowledge of not being human gnawed at him. It was acid on his skin, burning holes into him that he ignored. He feared that the abyss would one day devour him, but he feared being the abyss more.

He sat on a cliff. It was full of tombstones, the place Randou, Rimbaud, was buried. Whenever he was having a bad day, he went here for some reason.

As he stared out over Yokohama's bay, the feeling of dread slowly curled up around his windpipe. The smoke in his lungs did nothing to eradicate it. The nicotine let him lean back and he closed his eyes, focus, but the feeling remained.

A bird cried out, sharp and unpleasant. It dived into the ocean below with an unheard splash. Its talons were wet but contained no fish, despite its impressive try.

Chuuya opened his eyes. His thoughts strayed to the warehouse nearby. He turned his head to the right.

The cliff he was on tapered down to the beach below, almost at a perfectly consistent slant. Between the top and the bottom, a small flat area had been created. On this lot sat the warehouse, a dilapidated building that used to store weapons for the Port Mafia. It was Chuuya's personal warehouse now, a favorite hangout place for him and Dazai.

Chuuya said his goodbyes to Rimbaud's grave and wandered down the green grass and prevalent weeds to the warehouse. His shoes crunched on the gravel path.

The warehouse was dilapidated, the color of the wood faded from storms.

Chuuya crushed his cigarette between the toe of his shoe and lit another one. He frowned at the double doors of the warehouse-he was pretty sure he had put a padlock on them. But now, there was nothing.

Chuuya pulled open one of the doors. His mouth tasted bitter, a different sort of flavor than the one he had from smoking. He inhaled. The end of his cigarette light up. He pulled out his phone and went into the flashlight app.

Dazai was on the floor. Blood pooled around his arm. A pocket knife was on the floor. One of his wrists had been unbandaged, a deep, lateral slit right across where the artery was.

Chuuya moved closer.

Dazai had an eerie smile on his face. He looked peaceful. Dazai was never peaceful, never calm. When he was asleep, he had a frown on his face. When he was smiling cheerfully, it was an act. When he dropped all pretenses, he looked hollow and dead inside. He was never. . . at peace.

At least, Chuuya had never seen Dazai at peace. He wondered if that was a new development.

Maybe Dazai wasn't just playing at being good. But if he was, why was he here? Why was he on the ground bleeding out, instead of helping save an orphan or stop a bomber like his friend would have wanted.

Chuuya felt a bit of irritation at the thoughts, he didn't really know why. Maybe because Dazai never actually was what he claimed to be. A friend, a partner, someone you could trust? Absolutely not. But mostly, aside from that brief flare of annoyance, he felt numb. He felt like someone had injected him with a sedative without him noticing.

He got out of the flashlight app, going to his contact list. The warehouse went back to being dark. He tried not to wonder about whether Dazai's blood had already coagulated, or if his old partner was dead this time.

Chuuya hit the call button, holding his phone to his ear. He was glad he was numb, that he had gotten used to this. Otherwise his hands would be shaking, otherwise his voice would contain blatant worry when he needed to be as calm as possible. "Mori-san? I found Dazai bleeding out in a warehouse."

XXX

A man wearing glasses picked up the phone on his desk. He was a government agent, Sakuguchi Ango. But what was more important was what he knew and what he was going to do with that knowledge.

He knew that someone matching Dazai's appearance had been admitted to a hospital last night.

Ango punched in the number of the Agency and paused—he put down the phone. He stared at the phone. He pulled his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

How did you tell people their coworker was in the hospital?

Ango had told families about the deaths of his coworkers. It was his job as their superior, their handler. But at least for that the end had already been written, the conclusion was certain. All there was to do was ride out the waves of emotion.

The Agency was an odd mix of professionalism, crazy, and family.

Ango knew this would be the first they heard of Dazai being hurt. He could offer no comfort except he thought Dazai was still breathing. He could offer no closure. He was the bearer of only bad news.

Ango sighed, resigning himself to picking up the phone and dialing the number. He asked to speak with the President.

XXX

Fukuzawa strode into the general office.

Everyone fell silent. Whenever the President made an appearance, it meant something important had happened.

"Dazai-san has been hurt," Fukuzawa announced. "He was taken to a hospital by someone last night. The current state of his injuries is unknown, but it is known that he suffers from a severe lack of blood and has had transfusions already."

"I am glad someone was kind enough to bring him in," Kenji said-he had immediately chosen to view the unknown person as a good Samaritan. His smile was less brilliant than usual.

"Was he attacked?" Atsushi asked, voicing the question most had in their heads.

Ranpo bit off a piece of licorice with a glazed over expression. "No." He gravely declared to all those listening, "This was a suicide attempt."

The statement crushed the whispers of theories and questions in the office.

XXX

It had been decided that some of the Agency would make a hospital visit. Atsushi and Kunikida paced down the white halls.

Atsushi hated the smell of antiseptic. It seemed to seep into everything and everyone inside, from walls to clothes, beds to skin. The whole place gave off the potent stench.

A man with red hair stood outside Dazai's hospital room.

"Who are you?" Kunikida asked.

"You're Dazai's new partner, right?" Chuuya asked. He had his arms crossed, leaning against the wall.

It took Kunikida a few moments to remember the man. "Yes. And you're Chuuya Nakahara." Kunikida moved a hand towards his chest, where he could pull out his notebook.

Chuuya slowly put his hands up in a placating gesture. "Easy there. I'm not here to fight."

"Really?" Atsushi asked, hopeful. To him, Chuuya did look like he was telling the truth.

Chuuya sighed. He admitted, "I'm the one who found the a*shole."

Kunikida's hand hovered indecisively. He decided to drop it, leaving himself at a disadvantage if there was a fight. He would trust that Chuuya didn't want one—it was better not to provoke the Port Mafia Executive. Although, even with his notebook, it was unlikely that Kunikida and Atsushi would win.

"You should have kept a better eye on him. Especially when it was a bad day like this."

"He's a grown man," Kunikida rebutted. He straightened up, spine stiff.

Chuuya scoffed. "He's your colleague, someone who you knew was depressed and suicidal." His blue eyes grew dark, turning cobalt. "Treating things this lightly just invites him to try again. Not doing anything on his bad days just invites him to try."

"You don't know him," Kunikida replied, tone as level-headed as he could manage. Chuuya hadn't been there for the past two years, hadn't had to deal with the constant antics of bungled suicide. A Port Mafia Executive didn't get to throw out judgment about Dazai's suicidal tendencies and how the Agency were handling it, how Kunikida was handling his partner.

Chuuya laughed. He took a step forward. Despite being at a severe disadvantage when it came to height, he still managed to look intimidating. It was hard to forget that he was a killer with thousands of lives ruined under his belt. "I don't know Dazai? I'm the one who cut the ropes when he tried to hang himself. I'm the one who dived into freezing lakes and rivers in the middle of winter to haul him out." He felt a tremble run through his hands. He gripped them into fists to not let it show. "I'm the one who changed the passcode to his medical cabinet every day so he couldn't overdose. I'm the one who wrapped him up after he cut himself. I'm the one who watched him tear minds to pieces." His volume dropped to a normal speaking voice, but it felt like a whisper after the passionate counter. "I was his partner through hell itself. I know Dazai. I know him a h*ll lot more than you do."

Kunikida opened his mouth but nothing came out.

The door opened. "The patient can receive visitors," a doctor with black hair informed. He held the door open for them and left shortly after.

XXX

Dazai kept his eyes closed. He didn't want anyone to know he was awake. It was easier. Dazai ignored the cool hands unwrapping his bandages. A sponge carefully cleaned up the blood.

A voice spoke up—it was Mori. He sounded disappointed. "I had thought you'd completely moved past serious attempts this time. It seems you've relapsed again."

Dazai couldn't help the flinch. He disguised it as a response to the stinging anti-infection cream Mori was putting on his wrist. His flinch and Mori's grip on his hand tugged on his stitches—with how perfect they were, Dazai suspected that Mori had been the one to do them too.

Mori paused, likely looking over Dazai's wound to make sure everything was fine. He wrapped up Dazai's wrist to the younger man's elbow, the inside of Dazai's forearm now restored to look just like normal. "Today is the fifth anniversary of his death, isn't it? He wouldn't have wanted you to be like this." He hummed and casually dropped an even harsher blow, "I doubt his last words were 'commit suicide, my dear friend.'"

Dazai's eyes snapped opened. He glared at Mori and tried to hit him. It was a feeble attempt. He was still disadvantaged by the blood loss he had suffered. His mouth was bared in an uncharacteristic snarl.

Mori simply caught the wrist of Dazai's arm. He gently pushed the arm down onto Dazai's chest.

Dazai let the arm lay on top his chest. His glare had not abated in the slightest.

Mori sent a look at Dazai. It clearly said, 'Don't try that again.'

Dazai lowered his chin.

Mori used a surgical clamp to secure the bandages on Dazai's uninjured arm. "Dazai-kun, you would have thrown away Odasaku's wishes completely if not for Chuuya-kun's lucky interference." He saw Dazai stiffen. His voice softened some, unnoticeable to anyone who didn't know how to read him. "You can't find a reason to live if you're dead," he reminded. Mori stood up, turning his back to Dazai and moving towards the door.

Dazai's voice was small, empty. "But what's the point of living without one?"

Mori paused, hand on the door knob. He quietly replied, "I think you already have several reasons, some of them waiting outside impatiently." He opened the door. "The patient can receive visitors."

Chuuya was the first inside.

A step or two behind him were the Agency members. Kunikida thanked Mori, politely, as one should, and entered. Atsushi followed after giving an embarrassed 'Thank you' to Mori—he felt like he had seen the doctor before.

Chuuya stayed just long enough to affirm Dazai wasn't in serious condition before leaving. He made eye contact.

Dazai blinked calmly at his old partner.

Chuuya nodded in response. He gave a sardonic tip of his hat towards Dazai before he turned and slipped out of the door.

The Mafiosos, black shadows that by all rights shouldn't be out and about openly in such a bright summer day, vanished from the hospital, waiting for the night to fall and the Mafia to come to life in Yokohama.

But one stayed behind, surrounded by light but not fading, greeting his coworkers with a grin. There was a division between them, of understanding, that wasn't there with the other shadows. A facade, a mask, to obscure the truth of the shadow being a shadow, born and raised in the darkness. He deluded them into thinking that it wasn't that serious, just one of his usual attempts gone right for once in a blue moon and that there wasn't really any significant connection between himself and those shadows, those Mafiosos. He convinced them, but as usual, he was unable to convince himself.

A/N

I think this is one of the few stories I've written without a happy ending.

As much as I love Dazai and the ADA, sometimes I don't like how they act. Especially when it comes to Dazai's suicide attempts-they take his depression extremely lightly.

I'm interested to see what people think of this story.

My thanks to my beta for this story, Solitaire_Dreams on Ao3.

-Silver


End file.
